Mal's Soliloquy Prologue
by Cass Eastham
Summary: INCOMPLETE Mal introduces his crew in his own words.


**Mal's Soliloquy Prologue**

Here's how it is….

The Earth got used up so we moved out and terraformed a whole galaxy of Earths. Some rich and flush with the new technologies; some, not so much. The central planets, thems formed the Alliance – waged war to bring everyone to their rule. A few idiots tried to fight em. Among them myself.

I'm Malcolm Reynolds, Captain of _Serenity_. She's a transport ship; Firefly class. Gotta good crew: fighters, pilot, mechanic. We even picked up a preacher for some reason and a bona-fide companion. There's a doctor too; took his genius sister outta some Alliance camp so they're keeping a low profile. You understand.

You got a job. We can do it. Don't much care what it is….

Now some folks might claim we got ourselves into this twister by not being finicky 'bout our cargo, livestock being skittish during take off and all. But lately I been taking preference to passengers who don't talk back, don't draw on the walls, and don't smell like incense. I'm endearing to the bunch, don't misconstrue. Wouldn't go into a scuffle without the colorful squad, but the last few weeks the whole mess of 'em been turning me a particular bright shade of bonkers.

Kaylee, for instance, she's a sweet kid. Been flying with her for some time now and near convinced she can rectify any mechanical problem I throw at her - as long as I resource her with the exact alphanumeric babble she expresses a necessity for. I want _Serenity_ purring happy much as she does so I do the best I can but lately I been inkling to starve her of parts just to get her spend more time tinkering and less time trying to knock boots with the good doctor.

Simon, the doctor, he's a prissy kinda character. Sum'n 'bout a college degree just seems to suck the common sense right out of a person's ear, never you mind what it does to their notion of obedience. He and I crossed words more than once but he don't seem to fathom the kinda words we gonna cross if I ever catch Kaylee cryin' over sum'n he done.

On the up side, Simon tends to his lunatic sister as his foremost responsibility and River is a justifiable handful. Couple times the little thing burst into acts of blood-drawing unpleasantness and I had to speak to the Doc 'bout putting a leash on her. Of late she just been scribbling pictures of Reever Art on the bulkheads with a set of markers no one can seem to locate. Disturbing pictures, mind you, but it scrubs off well enough. She shadows Simon every place and hovers in the corners of the room staring at me with slack mouth and unblinking eyes like some psychotic cat.

River puts Jayne in a stew more than me though, prolly cuz he is _the most_ synapse-challenged creature I ever laid eyes upon. T'other day I caught a glimpse of him packing a bitty pop-grenade in that daisy-colored tuque his momma sent him. Said it was for self defense if River ever come at him again. Naturally, my quarrel was for the safety of the ship and crew, himself included, but the addle brain wouldn't see the wisdom of my _direct order_ not to carry explosives in his cover, no matter how small. Understanding his worry, I made a mite compromise and blessed the use of a harmless flash bang instead. The flash bang, a sizable piece of gear larger than that of a man's fist, set his bonnet so high that the ear flaps barely reached his sideburns. Next day, I saw Jayne in the galley making a sandwich, paying less concern to the peanut butter covered hunting knife and more concern with River's wild eyes and rippled brow watching him from the infirmary window. It was one of the few times I could read her expression without a doubt. _"What in gorram hell is that under his hat?"_

Wash had the grandest response to Jayne's secret hat stash. He laughed at him. And not just laughed, it was a snickery, snot-producing kinda cackle that ricocheted back into existence during the most inconvenient moments over the next two days. In the middle of an ass-chewing about why we weren't getting where we were supposed to be going, he curled over the armrest of his pilot's seat and turned an unhealthy shade of hot pink. Near gave me a start when I could see his bubblegum scalp through his pineapple hair 'til I realized he was laughing again.

I rolled my eyes to exchange groans with Zoe but my tough-as-nails first mate seems to have softened in the marriage and was shuddering with her own sobered case of giggles. She didn't seem to be humored at the thought of Jayne so much, but at the sight of Wash's feast of laughter. From the beginning Zoe struck me as a warrior. I never could comprehend what she saw in Wash but I never mistook it for any of my affair neither. Most times they do a peachy job keeping their nuptial dramas out of the family business. I only got cause to interfere when they don't.

I ain't shy to say that I don't fancy amorous complications on my crew, but as I've been illustrating, preaching about the usefulness of being platonic doesn't seem to do me a whole lot of good. Oddly enough, the abstinent Sheppard is the biggest defender of the blossoming hormones between my mechanic and doctor. He is also the first to remind me of my place in the marriage of my pilot and first officer. I could do well without the old, gray angel nipping at my ear every time I have a Captain's right to throw a fit, but Sheppard has a morale motivating kind of use when call arises - the call usually being that Inara has snipped my unquestionable command in the foreskin.

I have to keep reminding myself that Inara's a whore and as such has been trained in the ways of transforming a guy like me into a stuttering baboon. Her black magic ain't deliberate, I know. She's been entertaining so long that wet lips and armor piercing eyes come natural to her. I can't have the likeness of a guffawing schoolboy every time she's in the vicinity, so I tend to overcompensate with harsher words than I mean to. The upside is that her tongue strikes back quick as a snake and says something that bites me to the core – makes it bushels easier to keep cold and focused on the job that's gotta get done.

And the job that's gotta get done, this time, was hauling a herd of thoroughbred horses from one side of the 'verse to the other. It seems a couple by the name of Don and Janice Wellesy were breeders out for new blood to add to their gene pool. Instead of hiring a long string of postal services to carry the herd by trade route into Alliance territory only to change arms and back out again, the dearly Misses Wellesy had a thought to take us on to do the long, empty trek from one outer rim planet across the expanse of orbit to another.

Having experienced cargo that turns oats into impressive piles of foulness, we knew what to expect and picked up the pack without event. Mister Wellesy was kind enough to allow flex time in the itinerary as it was more than a month's travel in which any number of oddly setbacks could have delayed our arrival. Being that the cargo started out his and had the intentions of ending up his, the job was perfectly legal, even in the fastidious eyes of the Alliance. It was a comforting thought not to have to keep watch for the Alliance vultures on this round and the crew seemed take a collective sigh of relaxation to have a month on the skids with nothing to do.

It didn't take but two weeks before we were ready to kill each other with cabin fever and smack between two outstretching arms of the verse there weren't nothing in the way of a corner pub I could throw them into and order up a good stress-relieving brawl. When Wash got whiff of a terraformed moon that oddly had no settlement on it, it took little to convince me to take a rest and let the wildlife run about in the open air for a spell.

I let the horses out too.

We all must have got a case of oxygen poisoning that day. Something about sunshine, fresh air and green grass after months of space travel has a tendency to make a mind relax a little too much. A spring day on a virgin planet makes a woman's eyes a little shinier, a man's heehaw a little louder, and makes a soldier forget to look over his shoulder.

Yep, t'was the oxygen poisoning that got us into this fuster clucked kind of a mess. God only knows how we're gonna get out… and he ain't sharing.


End file.
